


The Bullet

by LananiA3O



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Attempted Suicide, Gen, LOTS of violence, Lots of Angst, PTSD, Swearing, off-shoot of Ill Weeds Grow Apace chapter 6, references to past torture, serious character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: More than a year after the events of Batman: Arkham Knight, Jason - now Red Hood - is hesitantly co-operating with his siblings, but his memories of the Asylum still weigh heavily on him. When he tries to re-unite them with Bruce - who Jason has identified as the new Gotham vigilante "Ghost" - Bruce discovers that Jason wears the bullet Joker tried to kill him with as a memento... and everything goes downhill...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minuilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuilin/gifts).



> Alternate Universe off-shoot from chapter 6 of my story "Ill Weeds Grow Apace". If you have read the rest of my Compendium: everything up to that point is the same, except that Jason did not blow up the bullet Joker put in him together with his cell in the Asylum, but instead still wears it like a dog tag.  
> I blame this one on Minuilin, because s/he was the one who gave me this idea in the first place. I hope you are "happy".  
> For more info on my stories, updates, headcanons and random shenanigans, please see my blog:  
> http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

It had started with his _insane_ choice to let Tim and Dick and Barbara in on the secret he had recently uncovered. His _moronic_ decision to reunite them with Bruce.

Bruce’s greeting had been a glide kick aimed at Jason’s head, followed by a zip-kick of Red Hood to the armored chest. Kevlar-gloved hands grabbed hold of his right ankle quickly and he bit down hard on his lips against the pain, even as he was thrown against the nearest wall. Jason gritted his teeth through the pain and rolled back into a standing position. His fists kept flying, in between quick dodges. He didn’t hold back. He didn’t regret. Bruce didn’t deserve any better. Not after everything he had done. To Gotham. To Jason. To _the others_ _._

He caught the blood-red flash of Robin’s vest out of the corner of his eye and immediately used the ghost’s fist that aimed for his hood as leverage to swing up and counter Nightwing’s incoming kick from the other side. The black-clad arm he was holding onto cracked painfully and suddenly they were on the ground, rolling over broken streets covered in wet stones and dead earth. Jason was pushing and punching. Bruce was pulling and wrestling. An arm slipped around Jason’s neck, coiling around it like a particularly ugly, leathery snake, and suddenly it was like the wire was back around his throat, digging, clawing deeper as Joker pulled and laughed and laughed and the black trash bag over his heat became more and more suffocating with every second—

“That’s enough!”

He wasn’t sure which one of the two of them it had been that had shouted – Nightwing or Robin – or if it had been the same one who made Bruce’s, Ghost’s, grip soften just a little. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. Jason pushed hard, twisting in spite of the pain searing through his back and shoulders and pulled free. He rolled over the asphalt back into a pouncing position and took a deep breath.

 _Focus, Jason_ , not-Robin whispered. _Assess the danger. Plan your exit. In that order_.

The danger was six feet in front of him, the same plus two inches in height, and weighed two-hundred and ten pounds of unforgiving bone, muscle and Kevlar. It was wearing a dark cowl with pointy ears, a long cape weighted down at the end, and a belt full of crazy gadgets that were close enough to weaponizable to fail any airport security scan. And yet, the thing that stood out to Jason was the chain in his hand.

It was a frail and rusty looking thing, made of ball-chain links. At its end dangled a .45 Colt bullet, deformed and marred from impact and covered in long-dried blood.

“Jason...” Bruce – whose attention had been single-mindedly focused on the bullet so far – turned around to him with that familiar scowl of disappointment and anger. It made him want to smash the fucker’s face in. “Who did you kill?”

“Do you want a list?” He pulled one of his guns and aimed it straight at Ghost’s head. “Give. It. Back. Right now!”

Bruce didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t. He never did. Instead, he switched on the lenses of his cowl, scraped a few traces off the metal jacket, and started analyzing the sample.

Something inside Jason snapped.

His trigger finger curled the very same moment Nightwing’s arm suddenly appeared underneath his, rushing up and pushing his arm off target. The shot went straight over Bruce’s shoulder and he switched to his other hand instantly. The bo staff invaded his private space long before the shot was lined up, and Jason barely had the time to drop before it connected with his arm. He used his momentum to swipe at Robin’s legs, but Nightwing was on him within a second.

It felt painfully familiar somehow, the clash of fists and legs that followed, this strange choreography of violence and death. At some point this had been practice. At some point, this had been life. At some point, this man with the athletic build and the disgustingly handsome face and the hottest ass in all of Blüdhaven had been his brother.

Now, it was a real fight. Now it was death. Now, the black-clad vigilante with the angry frown and the electrified escrima sticks was his enemy. An obstacle on his way to reclaiming what was rightfully his. Nothing more.

Jason ducked low, even though the strain it put on his shoulders made racking seem like a reasonable past-time, and brought his head up fast. Dick might have been thickheaded, but he was no match for the hardened polymers of Red Hood’s helmet. Part of him felt strangely satisfied at the short half-yelp, half-grunt and the wetness of blood, and the glimpse of what looked like a tooth falling to the floor.

Robin went for his feet first. A sound strategy in most fights, particularly if using a staff, but Red Hood avoided it with a quick jump, before going for a swipe with the butt of his gun. Robin dodged carefully, bringing his staff back up in one swift motion that nearly had him off balance. Instead, he used the momentum to draw Robin forward, sending him straight into Nightwing. Unfortunately, the bastard really was made of rubber, and Jason cursed under his breath as he watched Goldie vault over the replacement and straight into Jason’s shoulder. The impact made his joint crack painfully and sent him toppling down.

Suddenly, Nightwing’s weight was on his back, pressing him down further and further, unforgiving and unrelenting. His legs curled around Jason’s right arm like a viper in grass and kicked the gun straight from his hand, while his arms wrenched Jason’s left behind his back and held it there. He tried to buck, to use his legs to regain some momentum, but Nightwing’s hold was unforgiving.

“I’m so sorry, Jason—“

“Fuck you!”

He wasn’t sorry. Jason knew he wasn’t. Dick had always been the good one. The golden boy. The perfect son. Like _fuck_ did he care about the street rat who went and got himself captured. _Like FUCK would he care!_ Jason had been a fool to delude himself into thinking, even just for a few weeks, even just for a few _seconds_ , that Dick and Tim or even Barb actually cared about him or anything that had happened to him. He was a liability. An experiment. A project. And he had failed. This was his reward. More fucking dirt, more fucking pain, more humiliation, more helplessness, more torture, more—

“It’s yours!” Bruce’s voice cut sharp through the snow and the wind and the angry puffs of air escaping from all of their lungs. The bullet was still dangling from the chain in his fist, swinging back and forth mockingly in the breeze to the sound of a clown’s deranged laughter, rising and roaring in the back of his head. “This is your blood, Jason.”

“What?”

 _Was that Robin or Nightwing_ , not-Robin wondered.

 _More importantly_ , the Knight replied, _who the hell cares?_

“Give it back!” He spat the word out together with the small pool of blood that had gathered in his mouth. Maybe another knocked out tooth. Joker had broken out two of his teeth first. He had to get out of here before Nightwing decided to break his ankle. “It’s mine! Give it back!”

“When did you—“

“You fucking know WHEN!!” He tried to buck once more, but Nightwing’s grip had become frozen steel. Jason couldn’t have cared less. “He filmed it! You saw it! Or did you not even bother to watch the damn video?! Did you just throw that in the trash, too, like me? Huh? DID YOU, YOU FUCKING BASTARD??!!”

“Jason—“

“HOW DARE YOU???!!”

At last, he found an opening. It was a split second of shocked bristling, but that was all he needed. He bucked hard, pushed his knees into the dirt and sent both himself and Nightwing back into the nearest solid object – one of the concrete pillars holding up the bridge, if Goldie’s pained howl was anything to go by – and followed it up instantly with an elbow in the direction of where that fucking gorgeous face was. It wouldn’t be so pretty now.

“HOW DARE—“

This time, it was Robin. He escaped the first and second swish of the staff, only to end up with a kick to his helmet that sent him face first into another pillar. Robin was on him in a leap, turning him around and pressing his stomach hard against the nearest piece of rubble, one boot hard on his back, the staff hooked tightly underneath his throat.

“Jason, please...” Robin sounded almost sincere, but Jason wasn’t fooled. Fucking replacement could act all innocent and cooperative and compassionate all he wanted. He had still replaced him, taken what was his, stolen his identity. Stolen his teacher. His caretaker. His father. Or at least the bastard he had once thought of as such. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

“LIAR!”

He was lying. They all were. Jason knew it. Joker – liar. Bruce – liar. Goldie – liar. Replacement – liar. Barbara – probably a liar, too, or at the very least an apathic co-conspirator. Just a few feet in front of him, the bullet still dangled mockingly, laughing, from a gloved fist. He followed the arm that was attached to it upwards to the shoulders and – finally – to the cowled face. Displeasure. Disappointment. It was almost comforting in its familiarity.

“You are all fucking liars...” He had wanted to shout, but he felt drained, all of a sudden. It hadn’t been a long fight, but he felt like he had struggled for years. “You said you’d protect me! You said you’d never leave me! You said I was family and family looked after each other! You _promised_ you’d never abandon me!”

 _Salt. Maybe tears. Maybe sweat._ It didn’t matter. It stung in the corners of his bloody mouth and it made his voice even more hoarse as he swallowed it.

“You LEFT me! You LEFT me and you fucking REPLACED me! Was it good?” He wanted to nod into the replacement’s general direction, but even that felt like trying to push through six feet of broken glass. “Did it at least make you FEEL GOOD, knowing that you had someone better to replace me? Someone who wouldn’t fucking whine and disappoint every single time? Did you already have him lined up before I disappeared? Were you just waiting for the chance and just didn’t have the balls to replace me? Is that it?

“Jason—“

“YOU HAVE NO FUCKING RIGHT TO THAT BULLET!!! It didn’t shatter _your_ sternum and rip through _your_ flesh! It didn’t end up right next to _your_ fucking heart! I survived it _by myself_! ME! Just me, because fuck knows you couldn’t be bothered to save me! You couldn’t be bothered to LOOK FOR ME! And NOW you want to claim the only fucking thing I ever did right and make it your own?? FUCK YOU, BRUCE!!! I won’t let you have it. I won’t EVER let you have another piece of ME ever again!”

 _He doesn’t want a PIECE of you,_ the Arkham Knight sneered in the depths of his mind. _You think he’s gonna let you go now? Think he’s gonna do you the mercy of killing you at least?_ The Knight chuckled. _Oh no no no no no, Todders, you little fool. He’s gonna keep you..._

The thought was sudden and clear in his head. He could see it in the hardened lines of Bruce’s face and in the helpless pity of his fucking perfect son standing next to him. He could feel it in the unwavering press of the Replacement’s boot and staff. They were not gonna kill him. Bats don’t kill. But lock him up somewhere, while dangling false promises of ‘family’ and ‘belonging’ and ‘love’ and all those other lies they had tried to shove down his throat right in front of him, just like that bullet was dangling from Ghost’s fist? Yeah. That they could definitely do.

He was not going to have it. Jason took a deep breath. The last he would ever take, but it was just as well. He’d rather die than ever be a prisoner again. He’d rather die than ever live another lie like that again. “I wish Joker was still—“

The explosion came out of nowhere. He couldn’t see it. He had been too busy staring at the filthy, cracked pavement two feet beneath his head, thinking how fucking unfair it was that this would be the last thing he’d ever see, but, hey, at least it wasn’t tiles, when it had happened. The noise had nearly killed his audio receivers and the heat felt scorching on his left cheek, but given that it was _only_ his left cheek, it was more likely a phantom pain, rather than his hood exploding pre-maturely. That and he still had his head attached.

What wasn’t attached anymore was the staff. It now hovered slightly off center and just below his chin. The tactical vision of his helmet switched on the second the smoke got too thick. There was coughing all around him. Whatever was in the air, he was glad his hood was filtering it.

He pushed hard, bracing both hands against the slab he had been bent over for extra momentum, and sent the replacement toppling backwards. Bending out of the grasp of that fucking staff was a piece of cake now. Goldie tried to come for him next, but in between the coughs that wrecked him and the apparently painful sting of the smoke in his eyes, it wasn’t much of a fair fight. Red Hood still put a bullet in his ankle to keep him from getting up again.

Ghost was down, wheezing in pain through the debris covering his prone body. Above him, the bridge was creaking and rustling where the supporting structures had been blown apart. The chain was still in his wrist. Jason cursed as he ripped the bullet off and tucked it back in between his armor and the scar on his chest, back where it belonged.

Bruce’s pained groan in reply came at the same time as Jason’s comms buzzing online with a sharp burst.

“What are you still doing there?” Oracle sounded angry, though not at him, somehow. It didn’t make sense. Jason shook his head. “Jason, get the hell out of there, now! I don’t have an infinite supply of confiscated militia drones to hack!”

He wanted to argue, but Ghost was rising again. He always did. Ghost and Joker and the Knight and the fucking Asylum. It was all the same thing. It was all the stuff of nightmares. As Jason turned and grappled out of the wreckage, the three shadows underneath him – black and blue and red – stirred with renewed purpose. Through his comms unit, he could faintly make out Oracle opening another channel, just before she dropped his. Her raging voice was like a melodious blaze.

“You are all goddamn idiots!”


	2. Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred returns to Gotham to find the batfam in shambles, but he refuses to give up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had sort of vague plans that I might write this, until someone prompted me and I decided that I was very definitely going to write it. So here you go. Enjoy

He had raised a flock of idiots. Alfred Pennyworth did his best to keep his face blank as a freshly pressed sheet of paper and his voice calm as a gentle summer breeze as he stepped out of the airport and hailed the nearest cab. He was courteous and kind to the driver, but inside, Alfred was seething.

Miss Gordon-Drake had not given him much to work with, since he had technically not been acting as Alfred Pennyworth, but as James Copper, at the time, and the entire conversation had been about what had transpired between four men who were also masked vigilantes, two of which were generally presumed dead by almost everyone in the world. What he _did_ know was that Master Todd had been trying to reunite Master Bruce with his sons, a fight had ensued, and Master Todd had fled from the scene. Whatever it was that had caused this fight had also been bad enough to make Miss Gordon-Drake force Alfred’s contact details out of Master Bruce and book him the next best first class flight from London to Gotham. And here Alfred had thought that this Thanksgiving could not get any worse than his own sister dying of COPD.

Returning to the manor felt strange, especially since it looked the same, but it had changed hands and name since Alfred had last set foot in it. It was no longer Wayne Manor. That place was gone, and as convincing as this new replica was, it was not the same. He tipped the driver generously and waited until he had disappeared down the driveway before knocking on the door.

It was Master Drake who greeted him, with a tired, but nonetheless happy, smile and Alfred did not have the heart not to return the gesture. A tight hug followed and Alfred could feel the exhaustion rippling through the new master of the house.

“It’s so good to see you, Alfred! I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Master Drake.”

Alfred smiled as Master Drake picked up his suitcase and ushered him into the house. The inside looked just as authentic as the outside, if not a little dustier, and left him with mixed feelings of nostalgia, happiness, and displeasure.

The next person to greet him was Miss Gordon-Drake, a bright smile on her face as she approached him from the back left of the hall. She had not changed a bit since Alfred had last seen her, but the fatigue was in her eyes as well. More greetings and pleasantries were exchanged on the way to the den, while Master Drake went to put his suitcase into Alfred’s old bedroom.

The first thing he saw upon entering the living room was Master Grayson’s face, staring stubbornly at the ceiling from where his head rested on the armrest of the couch. The second was the crutches on leaning on the couch.

“Master Grayson.”

“Alfred!”

Normally, Master Grayson would have vaulted, or somersaulted, or backflipped over the couch, before approaching him in quick, skipping strides that bordered on leaping. This time, he got up slowly, reached for the crutches, and hobbled over to Alfred slowly, careful not to put any pressure on his right, cast-wrapped ankle. He moved both crutches to his right hand and drew Alfred into a close hug.

“Dear God, I missed you, Alfred. I missed you so much.”

“A mutual feeling, Master Grayson.” He let his gaze travel down to the cast the instance Master Grayson let go. “What on Earth did you do to your ankle?”

“It wasn’t Dick’s fault,” Master Bruce corrected him from where he leaned next to the fireplace. He seemed, perhaps, the only person in the manor who was not happy to have Alfred here. “It is a long story.”

“One we are going to tell you, as soon as we’ve all sat down and had a cup of tea,” Master Grayson insisted, and the look he shot Master Bruce was one of cold-blooded fury. Miss Gordon-Drake arrived from the kitchen, carrying a tray with five cups and a steaming kettle in her lap, just as Master Drake returned to the room. With a quick nod, Alfred followed him to the couch and took his seat.

It took them almost half an hour to explain everything that had transpired, how Master Bruce had gotten hold of the bullet, which turned out to have Master Todd’s dried blood on it, how Master Todd had been desperately and single-mindedly trying to retrieve it, how his brothers had tried and failed to restrain him, how Master Todd had shot Master Grayson in the ankle in a bid to escape from the madness, how Miss Gordon-Drake had caused the explosion that had provided him with enough cover to run.

“I have raised a flock of idiots.”

“Barb’s not an idiot,” Master Drake said quietly, and there was a definite edge of shame and offense in his voice. “She’s the only one who didn’t mess up royally last night.”

“Miss Gordon-Drake is the only person present in this room who never _lived_ in this house while I was still here,” Alfred stated non-chalantly. “You are proving my point for me.”

To his left, Master Grayson flinched with guilt. The smile that crossed his lips was gone as quickly as it had come. “We all messed up. We know that. Bruce should have given back the stupid bullet. Tim and I shouldn’t have restrained Jason. Jason should not have shot me in the ankle. It’s all done now. We can’t turn back time. What matters now is how we proceed.”

“Jason was only in sporadic contact with us, even before this disaster,” Miss Gordon-Drake explained. “We know he is still in town, if only from the bodies GCPD has been cleaning up from Blackgate to Bleake, but he hasn’t contacted us ever since and all my attempts to hail him have been unsuccessful.”

“I have the Batcomputer running analysis on his patrol patterns,” Master Bruce stated from where he still stood, arms crossed and face scowling, next to the fireplace. “I have also identified a number of addresses he likely uses as safe-houses. I will check each of them tonight—”

“You will do no such thing,” Alfred interjected quickly and it was all he could do to keep the fury out of his voice. “You have all witnessed the horrific effects of cornering and trapping Master Todd. What makes you think that chasing him down now is a good idea?”

“Alfred, he is killing people—“

“We’re not here to discuss Jason’s morality, Bruce,” Barbara cut in sharply. “That discussion can be had another day. What matters now is finding him. Helping him. He’s obviously deeply traumatized and potentially psychotic. He needs help”.

“Precisely, Miss Gordon-Drake,” Alfred refilled his tea and took another sip. “Which is exactly why we should _not_ try to find him. Making him feel cornered now is not going to help the situation.”

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Master Grayson argued. “We can’t just give up on him.”

Alfred agreed.

“We won’t, Master Grayson. However, the four of you have done enough damage already. I will handle Master Todd from now on.”

***

He had raised a flock of idiots.

Alfred had thought so then. He still thought so now. Even a full year later, it still grated on him.

Master Bruce had stubbornly ignored his advice that night, of course, and Alfred was eternally grateful that Master Todd proven just as resourceful as his father and that his brothers had kindly told Master Bruce to go fornicate with himself if he really wished to dig himself deeper into this hole of his own doing.

The safe-houses had all been abandoned, both the ones leased under various combinations of the names ‘Jason’, ‘Peter’ and ‘Todd’, and the ones under the multitude of fake identities Master Todd had created. His patrol pattern had proven to be practically non-existent, with erratic occurrences of untimely villainous deaths that left GCPD shaking their heads and Master Bruce fuming in quiet anger. Alfred did not approve of this new, harsher line either, but if the autopsy reports and case files proved anything, it was that Master Todd was going after criminal elements only and administering clean kills. Whatever else Joker had done to the poor boy, he had not given him a _joy_ for killing. Alfred was eternally grateful for that.

Master Grayson had wanted to go looking for him, but the injury Master Todd had given him had thankfully put a stop to that. Unfortunately, it had also gotten him kicked out of Blüdhaven PD, sidelined all his vigilante activities for ten weeks, and given him a permanently more vulnerable and less responsive ankle. The nerve damage had been unfixable, but at least it had not been permanently disabling, and it had put a serious damper on Master Grayson’s enthusiasm for long enough to let Miss Gordon-Drake and Alfred talk him out of this madness.

Master Drake had proven to be the most reasonable of Alfred’s field agents by far. He had not even attempted to seek out Master Todd. Instead he had planted the little metallic capsules Alfred had provided him with: little messages in figurative bottles for Master Todd to find later. Master Grayson had joined him, once he had returned to the field. Miss Gordon-Drake had picked all the spots herself, drawing on her memories of joint patrol between Batgirl and Robin to come up with locations that Master Bruce did not know about or at least did not pay attention to.

And Alfred... Alfred was the one who had written them. Each one was unique. No two were the same. They were tiny little notes, hand-written with fine ink on high-quality parchment, each no longer than a sentence or two.

_We are sorry for what happened at Bracken. All of us._

_It was Master Bruce’s fault, not yours. We are not angry._

_We are glad you’re still alive. Please stay that way._

_Master Bruce may be fool enough to try and find you. We are not._

_Master Grayson does not hold a grudge for that shot. Everything will be ok._

_If you ever wish to return to us, you know where to find us._

In the beginning, most of the messages had been variations of the first six. Every day, Master Drake had planted one of them. Upon his eventual return to the first drop off point two weeks later, the message had been gone. They had all been gone and unless someone else had raided each and every drop off point, which Alfred considered highly unlikely, Master Todd had received them at the very least.

If only he had ever replied...

Thanksgiving 2017 was a bleak affair. The shadow of last year’s failure hung heavy over them as they gathered at Drake Manor to bring the family together. Master Todd’s continued elusiveness was a minefield that blew up the dinner conversation half-way through and prompted Master Bruce to retire early.

Even worse, the young Masters had grown more disillusioned with each month that passed without a sign of their little brother. Alfred did not blame them, but it still broke his heart when Master Grayson had eventually profusely apologized for retiring from his messenger duties. He had made many new acquaintances over the year – all of them young vigilantes and heroes like him, including the strange, but stunningly beautiful woman from an entirely different planet who had become his girlfriend. They had formed a group that the nation had taken to calling The Titans and they relied on him for leadership. The unfortunate devastation of Blüdhaven just after Labor Day had been the final straw and Alfred had hugged him tightly, promising him that he bore him no ill will for his decision to leave for New York.

He still inquired about any sign of Master Todd regularly, of course, as did Master Drake and Miss Gordon-Drake. They, too, had their own hands full, having taken a new, young vigilante under their wing, a mute little girl called Cassandra, who had been raised to be a soldier and who was now finally given the chance to a child. It was a very noble, yet taxing effort, and Alfred did not find it in himself to hold their shifted priorities against the young couple. Especially since they were doing a better job of it than Master Bruce had ever done with either of his boys.

That left Master Bruce himself. Alfred was reluctant at first, handing drop-duty to him, but there was not much else he could do. He made sure to check the camera footage in those locations that could be covered to ensure that Master Bruce was not bugging or booby-trapping them in a fix of temporary insanity, but there was not much else that could be done. Except waiting.

And so, Alfred waited.

***

Thanksgiving 2018 was downright dismal. Another year passed. Another year without a sign of life outside of the bodies of mafiosi and other criminals. This time, nobody mentioned Master Todd over dinner, yet his shadow still hung over the house like a thunder cloud. It was on that night, standing in the room which had once been Master Todd’s and which Master Drake had rebuilt to look exactly like it had back then, that Master Bruce told him he was not going to plant any more messages.

“He doesn’t _want_ to return, Alfred. He has made it abundantly clear. I don’t want to cling to vain hope forever.”

Alfred wanted to be angry, but it was hard to be furious with a man who sounded like someone had cut a part of his heart straight out of his chest and then set it on fire in front of his eyes.

Well, Alfred had nothing more to lose. What else was an old man going to do with his time anyway?

Mister Fox kindly agreed to continue providing him with capsules and so Alfred continued writing. He started with filtering the spots he could access, then set out to plant the capsules there at every opportunity. Hail, wind, or rain – it didn’t matter. To Alfred, it was another daily task to be done. The most important daily task, perhaps. He could do this until he dropped dead.

***

Thanksgiving 2019 arrived with bitter, brutal cold, and Alfred coughed as he planted the latest capsule. This one described the first Thanksgiving dinner they had ever had at the manor together and the fond memory brought a smile to Alfred’s face.

He couldn’t remember exactly when he had started switching from a few short sentences to little anecdotes, but it had been sometime early on. It made for more entertaining writing and hopefully for more entertaining reading as well.

Alfred turned to leave the green maze that was Miagani’s Botanical Garden and suddenly he was there.

He had traded the leather jacket for a camouflage suit, not unlike the one the Arkham Knight had worn, but the helmet was red, not blue. He looked taller than Alfred remembered, but then again, Master Todd had been fifteen years old when they had last spoken and Alfred was growing old. He looked strong though. Strong and defensive.

As much as he would have liked to do him the courtesy of letting him speak first, the winds were howling savagely through the greenery and it was unusually cold for the middle of November. After two minutes of silence, Alfred finally spoke.

“Good evening, Master Todd.”

“Good evening?” He could hear the raised eyebrow, even if he could not see it. “What are you doing here, Alfred? It’s cold and dark and dangerous here.”

“Why, I am leaving another message for you, Master Todd,” Alfred replied wryly. “Granted, it has been a rather one-sided conversation for the last three years, but I won’t hold that against you. A late reply is better than none. How are you doing?”

“How—” Master Todd staggered backwards, as if the words had been a punch to the face. “How am I doing?” Suddenly, there was fury in his voice and in his body. Alfred stood as still as he could as the feared Red Hood approached him and all but grabbed him by the lapels in anger. “It’s been three fucking years! Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don’t want to talk?!”

“It did occur to Masters Bruce, Grayson, Drake, and Miss Gordon-Drake,” Alfred admitted. “I, however, am a foolish old man, who has nothing but time and no longer gives a rat’s ass, if you will excuse my French.” He cleared his throat. “Also, the Master Todd I remember was never shy about voicing his opinions. I am fairly certain that, if you did not appreciate the messages, you would have sent them back to the manor in an untraceable package with profanities written all over it a long time ago, and you certainly would not be collecting them still.”

“Alfie...”

Master Todd truly was amazing. Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat as the despaired, disbelieving whine in Master Todd’s voice crushed his heart. How could a man who had gone through so much and _done_ so much still sound like a thirteen-year-old, malnourished boy? He spread his arms wide and waited.

For a moment, Master Todd looked like he was ready to bolt. He was considering it. Alfred could read it in the way his feet nudged back and forth, in the way his fingers flexed next to his holsters, and in the shudder that ran through his entire body from head to toe.

The hug was swift, but not unexpected, and Alfred made sure to stand his ground as Master Todd clung to him for dear life, burying his head against Alfred’s shoulder and melting into the soft murmurs of reassurance and the gentle pats of a hand on his back. Suddenly, the cold was gone. The wind was nothing but a gentle breeze. His youngest grandson had finally found the road home again, and Alfred thanked whatever higher powers may be watching for this blessing.

“Master Todd...” He waited until he had pulled back fully again, allowing Alfred to get a closer look at him. The uniform, which had looked pristine and well-kept at first, was in dire need of repair and a proper cleaning. As a matter of fact, it might be easier to replace it. It would be a step too far for now, Alfred knew, but he made a note for later. Whenever Master Todd would be ready. “Forgive my boldness, but you are right: it is dark and cold and dangerous out here. Would you mind if we continue this conversation somewhere bright and warm and safe?”

“I have a safe-house nearby,” Master Todd muttered through clenched teeth. “It’s warm and safe, though I wouldn’t call it bright. The Knight’s not exactly the homely type.”

 _The Knight. The Arkham Knight_ , Alfred thought with a sour stab of sadness to his gut. It was a shadow Master Todd should have cast off long ago, probably would have, too, had it not been for that disastrous Halloween three years ago. Still, as long as Master Todd was not dead, it was not too late yet.

“Warm and safe is more than enough, Master Todd. Thank you.”

Alfred could almost feel him blush behind the mask. “No one’s thanked me for anything in years.”

“A great shame,” Alfred declared. “I shall do it then: thank you for looking after Gotham. Thank you for not leaving. Thank you for being here tonight. And thank you for bringing Master Bruce back into the fold. As regretful as it is that he immediately spoiled the entire event, I greatly appreciate not having to hide my survival from my own grandchildren. Including you. I am grateful and happy that you are here with me tonight.”

Master Todd gave a slight laugh and shook his head before turning to head for the northern stair case. “Safe-house is this way.” He paused shortly and took a deep breath.

“I’m happy you’re here, too.”


End file.
